Last weekend, we got together with a group of friends and their kids--a total of four boys under the age of six, with The Roc being the youngest. They played more or less quietly in another room while we enjoyed dinner and grown-up conversation. But, as with the proverbial monkeys jumping on the bed, it was only a matter of time before one fell off and broke his head. Just as Daddy and I were congratulating ourselves on producing such an independent and well-behaved child, we heard The Roc crying.
Although we had thought there was another adult in the room at the time, it transpired that the kids were alone, and they were amusing themselves by jumping off the sofa. The Roc, though every bit as brave as the bigger boys, was not as agile, and he had fallen and "hurt his neck"--a phrase to send any parent into a panic attack.
But it seemed like our panic was premature; The Roc had already stopped crying, and he made it clear that it was actually his right arm, not his neck, that hurt. After establishing that he was not bleeding, disoriented, or paralyzed, we gave him lots of cuddles and cookies, and he went about his business as if nothing had happened, albeit with heavy parental supervision.
The next morning, I checked him for scrapes, bruises, or swelling, and he still seemed fine; he only complained that his arm hurt when I tried to pick him up. I switched to picking him up under one arm and one butt cheek, an awkward but effective solution. I also noticed that he was favoring his left hand, even though he's usually mostly right-handed. The Roc was already scheduled to go in for his seasonal flu shot later that week, so I called his pediatrician and asked her to examine his arm/shoulder/neck at the same time.
By the time the flu shot rolled around, The Roc's mobility was much improved, to the point that I almost canceled the consultation. The flu shot was administered in The Roc's chubby little thigh, mercifully out of his (and my) sight. I held him and sang him the Thomas the Tank Engine song that has been stuck in my head all week while the nurse did her thing. The Roc's face contorted into a wail, but before he could let it out, it was all over. And he didn't even know what had happened. The only protest he could make was: "Mommy, she did something to me!"
Then the pediatrician came in to check out The Roc's sore arm/shoulder/neck. He didn't seem to mind her poking and prodding, but she suggested getting an x-ray anyhow, just to rule out any broken bones.
Now, I once broke my arm ice-skating in Scotland. It was a hairline crack, hardly visible on an x-ray, yet I was in so much pain that I couldn't sleep or move my fingers for a full week. I figured if The Roc had broken anything, he would have been screaming in agony. So it was with absolutely no trepidation that we proceeded across town to the radiology lab.
By this time, it was nearly three. The Roc usually goes down for his nap at two. The lab closed at four. Sleep would have to wait. I pumped him full of sugary juice and did my best to keep him distracted while we waited to see the radiologist.
Twenty long minutes later, it was our turn. The Roc was ushered into the lab to "get his picture taken." I think he was expecting a big white room full of toys, like at Picture People. His sense of betrayal was palpable. The Roc had been holding it together until this point, but the combination of sleep deprivation, bare torso, cold metal table, lead blanket, and sinister-looking x-ray machine pushed him over the edge. He completely lost it, and no amount of Thomas the Tank Engine songs would calm him down. In half the x-rays, you could see my arms pinning him to the table.
Despite his squirming, we finally got a perfectly clear x-ray. You didn't need to be a licensed radiologist to figure out that The Roc had a broken collarbone, or "fractured clavicle" in labspeak.
And that's when I lost it.
Clearly, The Roc is going to grow up to be one of those kids who breaks his ankle playing football but finishes the game before heading to the hospital--on foot. Apart from being tired and cold and cranky, he wasn't the least bit perturbed by his injury. In fact, he stopped crying and perked up considerably when he saw his "picture." But I was literally nauseous at the thought that my precious little baby was broken. And not only had I failed to prevent it, I had failed even to notice it.
We were sent back across town to the pediatrician, who couldn't do anything but give The Roc some Tylenol and a tiny little sling for his arm and wish me luck in getting him to wear it. (Exactly the same treatment I'd received from the NHS for my exponentially-more-painful broken arm, by the way; don't get me started on the perils of socialized medicine.)
Four hours and three waiting rooms later, we were back home. The Roc finally got his nap. I found a miniature bottle of rum buried in the pantry, mixed it with the contents of a juice box, and christened it the Fractured Clavicle.
Since then, several people have expressed sympathy and/or horror upon seeing The Roc's sling. But he's fine. He'll be the first to tell you he doesn't need any cotton-pickin' "swing," as he calls it. In six to eight weeks, he'll make a full recovery. And as for me, now that the shock has worn off, I'm just really, really grateful that he didn't break his neck.
I know parents of boys who are on a first-name basis with the nurses in the ER, and I was fully prepared to join their ranks when The Roc was born. But in his two years and four months, The Roc has never had any stitches, serious illnesses, or broken bones, until now. He's never even thrown up (obviously having inherited Mommy's iron stomach, not Daddy's hypersensitive gag reflex). It's not for lack of trying or quality of parenting that The Roc has managed to avoid the ER thus far, and I don't expect that his streak will last forever. But in that context, a broken collarbone looks like a best-case scenario, and maybe even a gift from God. And it's pretty hard for a toddler to climb up onto a sofa with his arm in a sling.
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